Then came a man running from the valley under the hill.

"It's your husband, Mrs. Jose," he panted, turning in at the house where
the fat tramp ate with his back against the clothes-reel. "You better
go! I'll telephone for a doctor."

She ran, white-faced, gasping cries. Other women ran. The spirit of
helpfulness and curiosity to know what had happened set wings on the
heels of the little community. The messenger telephoned and followed
them.

The fat tramp set down his plate and glanced to right and left and all
about. Then he shuffled into the deserted house and after a brief stay
hastened out with his pockets crammed and bearing garments in his arms;
he scuttled away with sagging trot across the fields.

Farr saw him go and did not pursue.

"Yonder goes the spirit of the age," he told himself, with sardonic
twisting of his lips. "When Opportunity knocks, knock Opportunity
down. Embrace Opportunity, but be sure it's with the strangle hold. The
directors of a robbed railroad make a more dignified getaway than
that porcine pedestrian is making--but it's the same as far as the
stockholders are concerned."

He went on slowly toward the hollow under the hill.

The procession met him--a limp man, moaning, borne in the arms of his
sweating mates, women trotting alongside and crossing the road, to and
fro, like frightened hens--clucking sympathy.